Resurrection Diamond
by Ink Of Many Shades
Summary: Cassel wants out of the business to be with Lila. Zacharov doesn't feel the same about losing his transformation worker. They make a deal, and it starts Cassel and Lila on a stunning journey to find the most elusive item in history.
1. Chapter 1: Messy Escape

Chapter 1: A Messy Escape

**_LILA_**

"Do you know the best thing to do when facing a pissed-off guy with a gun, Cassel?" I ask rather rhetorically, as I hunch over the steering wheel of a small Toyota that I don't even remember stealing, most of my focus on the road and the high speed car chase that we're in with the police, on the wide streets of Ottawa. This must be the third car Cassel and I have boosted since my old Jaguar got stolen in Toronto.

"I'm taking a wild guess that it doesn't involve mouthing off to him and having him shoot you dangerously close to the sweet spot," Cassel replies with his teeth gritted, equally rhetorically and considerably more deadpan, despite the obvious pain from the bullet in his thigh and the blood all around it.

"Oh, wonderful. And there I was thinking that you didn't know what you were doing. Now I'm not sure I feel better, though, seeing as you obviously _intended _to get shot. Can't imagine why." I can't get rid of my old habit of sarcastic banter, even in a life-or-death situation, like the one we're in. To be fair, though, neither can Cassel.

"Lila, these weren't gangsters!" he protests. "How could I assume that a _police officer _would shoot me?"

He has a point. Especially considering that I'm the one the Feds are chasing. No, that's not true: the _cops _are chasing me for the murder of a FBI agent, and now a cop (my troubles just keep adding up) to possibly lock me up for the rest of my life, or use me against my father. The real Feds—the government attack dogs-are chasing _Cassel, _even though he's committed no crime and couldn't legally go to jail.

I wouldn't trade our positions for the world.

Well, perhaps I would. I can't say that the idea of being the rarest worker on the planet doesn't tempt me with dreams of endless money, power and respect. And I mean that literally; sometimes when conning people I give them such dreams—of becoming powerful-and the blowback is just the same dreams right back at me.

But then, I see Cassel. I _see _him—what his blowback does to him when he uses his power, because that is when he's most vulnerable—and more importantly, I _see_ him when he thinks I'm not watching. He's crushed under the weight, of possibilities or responsibilities, I'm not sure which. I recall how Cassel told me once, what my father said to him: _"A man may daydream of spending a million dollars, but the same game with a billion sours the fantasy." _Cassel wanted to be a worker with all his heart. I wonder if he still feels the same way.

I often feel jealous of Cassel; but I recall feeling overwhelmed, before, at stepping into the massive shoes of my father, the legendary worker Ivan Zacharov. How could I live up to the name?

That doesn't even come close to the responsibility of being the most powerful worker of our generation.

Gunshots jolt me out of my reverie. Cassel, despite the pain in the wound, is wielding a pistol and firing at our pursuers out the side window. An answering burst follows, but one of the police cars cracks a windshield and careens off the road onto someone's property while another simply screeches to a stop right there on the road. Cassel has blown out their tires.

"Good shot," I say, though we both know full well he just got lucky. Cassel may be the most powerful worker in the world, but he's no crack shot. And I think that if he does become one, he'll forever regret it.

That's just how Cassel is: he's forever thinking about the consequences of his actions. He's just too moral for our dirty, bloodstained world, the gang world. He's the diamond under the coal.

And I love him for it.

Me, on the other hand. I killed the officer who shot Cassel. Put a bullet through his mouth on a reflex. Didn't think twice before racing to our escape vehicle with a hobbling, screaming Cassel.

What would Cassel have done if our positions were switched? He certainly wouldn't have killed the man; maybe he would have transformed him. There's no way these people know what he is; that's top-level security information. So he would get the drop on them.

And find a way to let them live.

Does that make me evil?

The jolt, as a police car hits ours and Cassel continues firing, shoots me back to reality again. "_Shit!" _I swear, banging my fist on the wheel. I can't zone out like this! Cassel is almost out of ammunition, and our tiny, if fast, vehicle is taking a beating. We need to escape, now. The streets separate at a wide T-junction less than half a mile from here, I figure from looking at our GPS. I have no doubt whatsoever that this junction will be blocked by chase cars, perhaps even a helicopter. I could try and make some dangerous manoeuvers, but that's a no-go in Cassel's state; just being in a police chase can't be too good for him. There's an alley, but….

"Take the right into the alley!" Cassel screams at me, pain twisting his face. That alley is a dead end. "I'll transform into something, and you run! There's a route there, small, but big enough for a person. I can hold them while you escape-"

"Not a chance! We're both escaping!" I shout over the squealing of tires and howling of sirens. "And what about blowback?" I trust him to figure out the logistics; he scouted some places for us to make a quick getaway when we first arrived. It's only him I'm worried about: I know he would rather die than let me be caught.

That will have to change soon.

"I can handle it-" he breaks off and transforms right there, into a brown mouse, writhing horribly from the blowback, blood on its tiny brown limb. It makes for a rather odd and incongruously amusing sight.

I veer into the deserted alley at incredible speed and pray my driving skills come through. I've been learning since I was thirteen; of course, once I became a cat, that had to stop. Oh, the inconvenience. _I'm sorry my poor driving got us caught, Cassel. Being a cat does that. You'd know, wouldn't you? _I blink suddenly, refusing to let thoughts like that distract me, especially not now. Cassel has given up everything for me. And yet... three years of electric shock collars and days of ill-treatment don't wash off like water.

The alley is the width of a car's length; if I do this right and drift enough, I can block the way for even a person. Of course, they could vault over the car, but it delays them and buys me and mouse-Cassel precious seconds to escape.

I stomp on the brakes and twist the steering wheel. The stunningly battered little vehicle _just _manages the feat, and I've thrown open the door and used my forward momentum to leap and roll onto the ground in a lightning motion before the car shudders to a stop. Police cars pull up outside the alley, sirens blaring, and sparks fly as bullets impact on the car and near me, but I'm unharmed. Cassel scampers out after me, having rode out the blowback, and I dash towards the smaller alley that Cassel mentioned, set in the wall between two garbage bags. I can see mouse-Cassel make a split-second decision; stay and hide under the car, safe from the cops, or run after me and risk getting shot.

Of course, he scurries after me. I don't even have time for an expression of exasperation as I find the alleyway and dash through, attentive to the shouts of policemen and the thumps as they leap over the car, delaying them again. I feel a tiny bit affectionate; the car pulled through for the last time.

Mouse-Cassel is safe; he's still injured, but once we get out of here, I'll just find a local illegally practicing doctor and get him fixed up.

Only me to worry about now.

The tiny alleyway opens onto a big street. I take off down the pavement, after Cassel dashes into my hand, and I've placed him in my pocket. The police officers don't know to come through, one at a time. By the time they emerge, I'm gone, a figure in the crowd with a baseball cap pulled over a mop of blonde hair, and a gray coat for the cold, moving briskly through the streets. At the other end of the street, police cars have stopped traffic and it looks like it's about to get messy. That's the junction that they would have caught us at.

Never let it be said that I am not eternally grateful for Cassel Sharpe.

**A/N: Do you like it? It might not be the best idea to start off with, but this is my first fic. R&R please! I don't think I'll update otherwise. No, I will not update otherwise. Review even if you didn't like. Tell me what I could have done better.**


	2. Chapter 2: Making Plans

Chapter 2: Making Plans

I take Cassel to a mob doctor who resides in a fairly unalarming first-floor apartment in suburban Ottawa. As I wait for the treatment to finish, I sit in a chair in the "doctor"'s living room, scuffing my booted feet on the threadbare rug, and consider the obvious worries. We have no car, the police are on our heels, and Cassel's thigh injury is going to take a few weeks, minimum, to heal. After getting Cassel patched up (he gets a fancy pair of crutches and a high-five from the doctor, who apparently likes people sassing police officers), we return to the Hôtel Legrand, where we have been staying for the past week. The Legrand is not very big, more of a cozy inn, contrary to its grandiose name. Our room has two beds, a TV, an instant-coffee maker, and more importantly, it has a convenient escape route, which is not easily identifiable from the outside of the hotel.

The escape begins from the bathroom window; you hang on to the drainage pipe and slide down, and from there it's only a short run to the section of the garage where our car is... was parked. Which reminds me that we'll have to steal another vehicle now. All because my Jaguar was boosted in Toronto.

I'll admit, it was a careless mistake on our part: we were expecting all kinds of trouble in the days following Agent Jones's murder, like mob retribution, police discovery and more. But grand theft auto was not high on that list. Prioritising's a bitch.

"Lila?" Cassel says, holding up two porcelain mugs of steaming black coffee bringing me back to reality. "Want some?"

I look at him, smiling, and notice his cheeks, rosy from the evening chill. "Not now," I decline. Then it hits me. "Wait, you made coffee?" I say, shocked. "you shouldn't be walking around, Cassel, your leg-"

"Will hold up," he cuts in. Then he smiles, as if he's letting me in on a secret, that smile that girls everywhere kill for. "Actually, I managed repair my leg. I kind of... transformed the broken bone. Made it whole again."

"That's interesting," I mull. I see that he isn't using the crutches the doctor gave him. Transformation workers can heal themselves? I never knew that. But then again, before this remarkable, crookedly-grinning, sweet-on-the-eye, good-hearted con artist arrived, I didn't know anything about them at all.

He gives his trademark crooked grin, which always makes me smile. "I had to do it after we saw the doctor, or else we would have had to answer the awkward question of how my leg miraculously healed from a bullet wound."  
Unlikely. In the crime world, people know when to shut their mouth. But, "Hah. They'd just think you were some sort of self-healing physical worker," I laugh, his good humour infectious.

His expression turns a gut-wrenching melancholy and I know what he's thinking: sometimes I wish I were one. At times like this it hits me right in the gut, driving the point right home, that having the most coveted magic of our time isn't all fun and games. It has cost Cassel a lot of heartache and manipulation. First during the three years when he thought he'd killed me, then afterwards when the government was snapping at his heels, it's been trying for my Cassel. He only just escaped from the deadly, spiderweb games of the law and the mob.  
I try not to think of what Cassel will have to do when I return to New York. Will he come? Will he risk the clutches of the government?

The most unappetising thought, though, is that I might have to force him back into working for my father. He would do it, I think.

He would do it for me.

As I think these horrible thoughts, while staring into the open, trusting face of the boy who loves me, the boy I love, the boy I may betray, all the stress of the past few days just becomes too much.

I collapse to the carpeted floor.

I wake up to Cassel gently shaking my arm, as I lie propped up against the soft pillows of my comfortable bed. His eyes light up as he sees me awake, setting that already luminous chocolate-brown colour aflame. "Want that coffee now?" he says, with a soft smile on his lips.

"Hell, yes," I say, running my tongue against the dry palate of my mouth. I see one cup of coffee on the wooden side-table, where Cassel left it while we were talking. The other lies shattered on the floor, seeping dark stains into the carpet.

He doesn't inquire into my collapse, which makes me so relieved that it's unbelievable. He offers me the coffee and I take it, drinking it all in one gulp, welcoming the scalding heat in my throat. It's perfect; strong and sweet, the way I love it. I wonder how he knew. And I wish to God that it was worse. Because coffee has nothing to do with the sick feeling in my gut.

After night falls, we set out deeper into the city of Ottawa. We were originally going to wait a few days, but with Cassel pulling his healing trick, he assures me he can go around fine. We need several things, most importantly, we need to find the mole who ratted us out to the police. We've been going along using only my family's contacts. One of those has tipped the police with information leading to the arrest of Ivan Zacharov's daughter. It's only logical that he has to be found... and dealt with. Cassel is not happy about it. He wanted to hire someone to memory work the man, but I convinced him that it was the only way, that memory work was unreliable, that he could discover our attempts, that my father will kill him anyway. The last bit is not strictly true; Dad doesn't know about this, yet. I know that, and so does Cassel. But it is irrefutable that as soon as this news gets to him, this man will quickly wish he were dead.

I feel absolutely terrible; I'm convincing my boyfriend as to the benefits of killing someone. I might not feel this way usually- I kill without compunction- but Cassel brings that out in people. His simple goodness, though he doesn't realise it, is like a brilliant diamond displayed to the world. Some, like me, admire him, for being better than them, and some, like his brothers, despise him, for the exact same reason, but everyone has to sit up and notice.  
He makes you notice little things about yourself. Not physically, but maybe about how you bullied that stuttering kid. Or how you kicked a stray dog that was following you the other time.

Or how you wanted to kill a man in cold blood simply to hide your identity.

We also need a new car and false ID. Both are simple to obtain, especially when one happens to be a transformation worker. We'll steal another car and get forged ID, Also, transformation work could do the job easy, but Cassel avoids working as much as possible, mainly because of blowback.

As we exit the hotel, I walk arm-in-arm with Cassel, which is an inconvenience when trying to navigate the crowd on the sidewalks which lessens only slightly after dark. There are fluorescent, incandescent and neon lights shining everywhere, from stores, streetlamps, and headlights and that, the pedestrian babble, and the periodic engine honks all contribute to giving the scene a certain surreal sense as we stroll down the sidewalk. It's cold; one of the perks of Canada is that the cold gives you a chance to dress warmly, perhaps using a scarf to cover a certain line of scars across one's throat.

Cassel offered to transform my keloid necklace for me, but I declined. I need the second smile when dealing with my father's- and my own- contacts. I am careful not to let the scarf slip and reveal it to any curious passersby.

Me and Cassel take a taxi into the inner parts of the city. Throughout the ride, we don't talk: we just sit, and enjoy the company. We don't get many moments like this, when we can relax, without fear of the government, the police, whatever. I thought that leaving New York would be simple, that no one would know who killed the FBI agent, and I could live a few months peacefully. Maybe I would run a con or two on the side. I underestimated the persistence of the government in finding us. We haven't discussed this before, me and Cassel, but it is clear as day that the reason they are so desperate to find us is him. He wasn't supposed to come with me, but now that he has, the sharks are blood-crazy. Of course. They either want to kill him or make him work for them. Both are unacceptable.

So we stay ahead, running and hiding. But it won't last forever.

In fact, it won't last even close.

But I don't yet know that it won't even last another hour.


	3. Chapter 3: Unexpected

**A/N: This chapter is short. It's pretty much a mini-chapter. But since sod-all people are even reading it, I don't think it bothers me. In any case, the next chapters will be longer. Thank you to tesstesstessa for being my**** first reviewer :) In fact, I'm pretty much writing for you now :)**

Chapter 3: Unexpected

The taxi pulls up at an "abandoned" warehouse, and I wonder to myself if there really is such a thing as an abandoned warehouse in the world, which is not populated with drug dealers, sex workers and worse. It's about as likely as an unoccupied snake hole. Not to mention that there are startling similarities in the type of creatures populating both.

The man whom we are searching for is Wesley Rutherford. He has worked for my family for two years, always hungry for a higher place in the grapevine. He worked with the Brennans before that, which strikes me as strange. My father doesn't usually accept people from other crime families. Whatever the reason, he had a chance and blew it. The tragedies of life. _Wanted a place in the pecking order, got one in the eating order,_ I think with an absurd amount of morbidness.

Cassel gets out of the car first, generously tipping the bemused and joyful cabbie. The expression on that handsome face is cool, relaxed, looking to all the world like a calm, collected killer, and it would fool anyone who didn't know him like I do.

_Know him like I do._ That single thought brings a warm feeling to my chest. The simple idea that I could know someone like the inside of my soul, be able to see the slight trembling in his fingers as he hands a twenty dollar note to the driver, the forced deadness in his usually warm eyes, is an idea that takes root in my heart and spreads its warmth.

_I matter to someone. And I know them like myself._

I get out after Cassel, bunching my too-distinguishable blonde hair under a black cap, and fish in my pocket to check for the horribly reassuring weight of the Beretta pistol within my oversized grey trench-coat. Withdrawing my hand and feeling no better than before, I step onto the pavement and examine the probably-not-abandoned warehouse.  
This neighbourhood itself is suffocatingly gloomy in the dark. The nearest house with a light on is a few hundred yards down the road. The warehouse is not quite what one might expect of an deserted building in a neighbourhood. There is no graffiti, no vandalism on the doors just because you can and no one would give two shits. The dilapidated state suddenly seems so much more real now that you can see its existence is practically denied by the locals. The building itself is small, perhaps the size of a large house. The front door appears to be padlocked tight, but I know that on closer inspection, it has been cut from the behind, and the best way to open the door is just to push.

I stride towards the entrance, but I can feel instinctively that Cassel has not moved an inch. "What's the matter?" I say in as cool and emotionless a voice as I can muster, feeling the urge to turn around. I know about the doubts he's having, but we have already gone too far down the road to stop. When he says nothing, I turn.

He stands stock-still for a long moment, eyes slowly tracking the taxi as it drives out of sight. He is wearing an all-black outfit, and I can see only his silhouette... And his eyes. Under the dim light of the streetlamps, his irises are black as souls and the soft light reflected directly into his eyes lights up a pinprick in the gaping blackness. He looks like beautiful Death, come to harvest the poisoned fruit of fallen humanity.

"Nothing," he replies, smooth and cold as death work. His voice doesn't crack for a second, but I know that this, hunting down and killing a man, goes against all his instincts. I silently promise myself that when the night finishes its long vigil, the only one with blood and death on their gloves will be me.

"Come on, then," I say, almost breaking down. This feels so wrong; we are standing like two enemies in a face-off rather than two teenagers in love. Before I can lose my nerve, I turn forward and gently push open the door.  
As it creaks open, I crouch and move as stealthily as possible into the doorway. A shadow falls over me and I know with immense relief that Cassel has followed me.

The doorway is in the shadow of a huge corrugated metal sheet suspended from the ceiling. There are two skylights, spilling moonlight like water into the giant room. I draw my gun and slowly raise it up as I scan the room for a sign of Wesley Rutherford. I realise and appreciate the irony in the fact that my entrance is like something right out of a procedural cop show. Cassel follows, slipping out from behind me to steal through the shadows. His movement is all but invisible; the Sharpes have trained him well.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a movement. I whirl to face it, gun up. I can see a metal table, and a figure reclining beside it. Neither are far away. My pulse accelerates and I take aim at Rutherford, ready to fire. Then I hear a shocked gasp escape Cassel, and at the same time, I recognise the head of silver hair that is so familiar to me.  
The figure rises from his chair, silver hair dancing light in the moonlight, and I see his face for the first time, although I know before I do who it is.

"Hello, Lillian," says my father, crime boss, Ivan Zacharov.


	4. Chapter 4: Deal With The Devil

**A/N: From here onwards, I'm going to publish once a week. Before, it was a whole I-don't-give-a-flying-shit-when-the-next-chapter-comes-up-because-no-one-freaking-cares outlook, but really, that's irrelevant. The chapters from hereon are longer, which must be a relief to my one ghost reader, because that last chapter was short azz. **

Chapter 4: Deal With The Devil

"Daddy?" I say incredulously, not accepting what I see not ten feet in front of me. "What are you doing here?"

My father looks up at me, expressionless. He raises a hand and the shadows in the wall behind him part to reveal a woman in black clothing, gun at her side. She examines me warily. She must be my father's new bodyguard. But why is he here? "Where's-" I blurt out, unable to hide my confusion.

"Mr Rutherford has slunk off this mortal sphere," my father says, no emotion in his tone. "I was happy to help."

Cassel steps out of the darkness, eyes intense on him, looking slightly put out, but mastering his emotions and appearing in control. Unlike me. "Mr Zacharov." he says, inclining his head stiffly, and with a little less respect than he should. "What brings you here?"

My father looks at him with more respect than Cassel gave him. "Hello to you too, Cassel." he says. "I suppose you could say our mutual friend brought me here."

"Mutual friend?" I snort, finally regaining my composure. "If you mean our not-so-much-friend whom we mutually wanted off the face of the earth, then yes, I suppose we were mutual friends."

"I would say to have some respect for the dead, but strangely I'm not in the mood here," Cassel cuts in. "Mr Zacharov, you did not come all the way to Canada just to finish off a little problem guy. What do you want?"

My father sighs, as if looking for a delicate way to put it. Apparently finding none, he simply says, "I want you, Cassel." He stands up from his chair, and the bodyguard woman stiffens. "Calm down, Anna. She's my daughter."

"But he isn't," she says in a low voice, as if she's afraid of Cassel hearing. "He's not even part of the mob."

Cassel's face tightens, eyes hardening. "Right on both counts, miss. You should be on _Jeopardy!_, you know. Except I see you prefer killing people." he sighs. "Tough choice to make, I see."

My father interrupts. "Anna, quiet. I trust Cassel Sharpe." Cassel doesn't react to that surprising statement except for a faint look of suspicion in his eyes. "I've come calling."

"Calling for what?" I demand, feeling the weight of the gun again... What? What the hell? Since when do I prepare to draw a gun on my father?

He fixes me with an implacable stare, the kind of look I have not seen from him since I was a child crying over a sprained ankle, and he told me to be a little stronger. "Calling for Cassel Sharpe. Calling for my transformation worker."

"What?" My head is spinning again. "Why do you need..." I know, of course. I've seen it coming for a while now. I worry about it all the time, I fainted in the hotel room thinking about it. I just didn't know it would come so _soon. _But I think again. Soon? This isn't soon. It's been months since the murder- execution- of Agent Jones. I was supposed to lie low. Instead I set a trail of car thefts and killed a cop. Way to camouflage, Lila. Top marks indeed.

"You knew it was coming, Lila," says my father, shaking his head as if in reprimand of my slowness on the uptake. Of course I knew what was coming.

Cassel has to work for the mob.

"No..." I say, trailing off. What is there to say?

Apparently, there is something to say. "I'm not going to work for you, Ivan," Cassel says, voice controlled and eyes showing the depth of the resolve beneath. "I'm the most powerful worker in the world right now. You don't own me."

_You don't own me._

Just hearing that brings flooding back the deluge of emotions I felt when Cassel told me his story: awe, admiration and beneath that a solid foundation of fury at those who manipulated him and used him. Now I feel the same. I square my shoulders and say, "You don't get to have Cassel, Father." No _Daddy _anymore. My voice is steely and unyielding, more like a crime princess than a teenage girl.

Good, then.

"I thought you might say that," says my father, not looking the slightest bit perturbed at our resistance, except for my last word. "But see-"

"I could run, you know," Cassel interrupts, taking on the conversational tone he uses when he gets angry. "You could never catch us."

Us? Me and him? Running away together? The idea seems absolutely perfect. Away where no one knows who we are, and no one cares. We could live happily, maybe with an odd con job on the side. Sharpe and Zacharov, running away I think about how simple my life used to be. Always the same, _You're going to take over the family, Lillian. You're going to be strong, and powerful, and... _On and on. Everything I ever dreamed of. Except for freedom. The family leaves no room for freedom. But that must be alright, because who would want freedom when you could happily kill people, right?

Right.

I envied Cassel his freedom. Now I could have that too.

I always knew what I was going to be before. Then, Cassel just made the choice harder. Except, then I couldn't have choice.

I settled for jealousy.

I flash a small smile at that. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cassel shoot me a grateful look. He must have thought it was a gamble to blatantly state it like that, as if I might refuse him, the idiot. I love him. I'm choosing him. I have longed for him for years, and now I'm choosing him.

For the first time, my father's veneer of calm cracks, as he sees that we are serious. It was a shock to him when I told him I had brought Cassel with me out here. This is worse. I'm siding against him. He looks rattled for the only time in this conversation. However, he carries on. "You could," he says, and the words might have sounded more authoritative if he hadn't just been shocked, "but your family couldn't."

Cassel's eyes blaze, but his posture remains confident and he doesn't flinch. He obviously anticipated that my father would try this, as did I.

"The day you touch my family, Ivan," he murmurs, voice somehow carrying throughout the large room, "is the day you will watch your life and life's work torn to shreds around you." He now looks completely malicious. enjoying the moment. "That's a promise from a transformation worker."

Anna turns white; she didn't know about Cassel. My father flinches involuntarily, and I can tell he is remembering Governor Patton's fall from grace.

He spins around to face Anna. "One word of this to anyone else, Anna, and you'll be sorry." Not his most stylish threat- in fact, it's downright clichéd- but the most powerful worker on the planet has just threatened him. I suppose he can be forgiven a little shabbiness. "Do you want to take that risk with their lives, Cassel?" he says, regaining confidence.

"What are you saying?" I cut in. My father wouldn't jump in and make big gestures unless he had a plan. He must have some other strategy besides making bluff threats against his favourite worker family. We're about to hear it.

"There is nothing you could give me that would compensate for the loss of your skills," my father says, now completely in control, voice like the narrator of a suspense story, about to deliver a plot twist, "except one thing."

I look him in the eye, meeting his stare evenly. "What's that?"

Cassel has gone still beside me. He isn't moving a muscle. He obviously knows what my dad is talking about, even if I don't "The Resurrection Diamond."

I start, shocked. "What the hell does that mean?" I demand. "You already have the Resurrection Diamond, Father." But I know that, like a twist in a penny dreadful, something is looming up ahead. A revelation that most definitely involves a certain jewel.

"It's a fake." Cassel's voice is flat, emotionless. "The original was stolen."

"Don't forget who stole it, Cassel," my father warns. For the first time, he becomes a little bit angry, and I know he isn't spinning tales. "Your family owes me."

The metaphor "looking into a closet that turns out to be the night sky" comes to mind. I have no idea how deep this history runs. Both Cassel and my father have hard, unyielding looks on their faces. I feel like a spectator in this culmination of history, the confrontation of an old wound.

"I took down Proposition Two," Cassel says, completely mastering his emotions. "I'd say you owed me for that."

"Of course, you executed an _absolutely brilliant _plan to ruin that madman," my father says, and I'm not quite sure if he's being sarcastic, because it was absolutely brilliant, and it was not. "And you would have died then, if not for-"

"Me," I cut in, overriding him. I stare at him, knowing with satisfaction that the expression of authority I face so many people with is now being used as a weapon against the man who put it on my face, who made me the way I am. "It was because of me that Cassel is not dead. Who shot the agent and took the heat?"

"I accepted the agent's offer," he counters. "Otherwise there's no telling where Cassel would have gone."

"The Resurrection Diamond," Cassel carries on, as if we weren't just talking about him, "cannot be found. I know, I tried. You threatened my family then too, Ivan." His lips curl upwards. "Do you ever become original?"

My father takes the insult in his stride. "You nearly became a Fed, Cassel. No need to look shocked that I know," although Cassel doesn't, he's better at hiding emotions than that, "but you are presenting a situation here. You owe me, Cassel. Your family stole my most treasured possession and all three of you brothers worked with the government, _against_ us workers."

Cassel's jaw tightens at the last statement. "What will you do if I don't want to find the diamond?"

Father sighs, and now he looks surprisingly... helpless. Of course. This is the one person in the world he can't threaten, so he has to appeal to another side. "What are you going to do? You owe me a favour, and now that you're powerful, you want to brush me off? I applaud you, Cassel. You're a budding criminal indeed-"

"_I DIDN'T STEAL THAT DIAMOND!" _Cassel shouts, in a shocking loss of control. His eyes are glaring like spotlights, his face white and furious, enough to put the fear of God in anyone. "I _don't _owe you_ anything_." His breath slows down a little and he blinks, regaining a little calm. He still looks angry, though. I stare at him, fascinated.

In the decade I've known Cassel Sharpe, I've never seen him display this much negative emotion towards anyone. He always seemed like a Zen master in the time he wasn't laughing and happy. But of course, when you live in a family that can force you to love them, break your bones and screw with your mind, you need to protect yourself. I used to deal with my problems with violence; I threatened a girl at Wallingford once, took off my glove in front of her. Cassel dealt with his problems with the simple method of not giving a fuck. Because whenever he did, someone went and sucker-punched him. It shames me to think that I did that, too.

I remember the way he used to trail after his brother Philip all the time, idolizing him and wanting to be just like him. I only knew Philip a little bit then, through his friendship with Anton, but Cassel's hero-worship made me hate him, partially out of protectiveness for Cassel. I think I knew then, just how much they hated Cassel, did Philip and Barron, hated and feared him, even if I didn't really know why. I only came to understand that hate when I was at my lowest ebbs as a cat; the fear of someone who can change you, in more ways than one.

"You are like your grandfather, Cassel," Father sighs. "You believe in honour, and debt. I need the Diamond, now." He wipes his forehead. "Why are you so against doing one last thing for me, before you live a life that none of your family ever had the chance to live?"

"I think I've been through my quota of being lied to, cheated and deceived," Cassel shoots back.

Father's eyes turn flinty. "And you're wrong."

* * *

My father once told me a story, when I was thirteen. It was about when he was a teenager, living and loving like us. He met a girl, named Jenny Talbot, who wasn't a worker, and he fell in love with her. He knew it was a bad idea- how often is falling in love a really good idea? Only when you want it to be- but he still did it. She lied to him, told him she loved him too, and then told some of her boy friends that he was a worker. By the end of the blood-stained story, my father was in the hospital with a burnt hand, and the girl and her friends were dead, courtesy of a visit from Desi Singer. It was the beginning of my father's criminal career.

"The thing is, I never for a moment thought it was her who told them, until Desi said it," my father had said, looking wistfully out the window of our house. "I didn't believe it after that, either. It was only later, when Desi told me what he had found when he went to her house, that I accepted the truth. Until then, I trusted her absolutely, as one can only do in love.

"But do you know why she really betrayed me?" He looked beyond me, into a past that was too bittersweet to resist remembering. "It was because I was different from her. She was afraid of being with me, because she thought I wasn't _like _her. As if a gene, one single gene out of hundreds of characteristics, makes us workers so different." I still remember the way he said _us workers. _Cold, mocking, and bitter, as real as the day it happened. "That was the day I learnt that people lie, people cheat, and people deceive, sometimes just for the sake of doing it. Most of all, I learnt that people have power. Worker or non-worker, people have power over you. Don't let them hurt you, Lila," he said, and I knew he was referring to the Sharpe brothers. I was dating Barron then, and Cassel was never far from my mind.

I did learn something that day, and I kept it in mind always. But it wasn't what he meant. It was two things: one, that people may be the ones hurting us, but we choose to feel it. I'm not saying that we should block out all the pain; just that people choose to be hurt, because they're punishing themselves. They punish themselves for trusting, and they punish themselves for allowing themselves to be lied to, cheated and deceived. Most notably, some people, like caring Cassel Sharpe, punish themselves for lying, cheating and deceiving. The first group of people deal with the pain by lying to, cheating and deceiving others. I thought of my father, reacting to the betrayal by ordering his first hit, and then becoming a criminal boss, driven by anger. The Cassels of the world just lie to, cheat and deceive themselves, hurting themselves again and again, in an endless cycle of selfless pain, to avoid hurting others.

That was the second thing I learned: people are only good when they face pain so others won't have to. That's why Cassel is so good; he hurts for others.

I don't hurt for anyone.

I don't even hurt for myself.

I never claimed I was good.

* * *

I back my thoughts out of that mental alley, the type of which are all too common in my twisted, dark mind, and focus on what's going on.

"Everyone gets deceived, Cassel," says my father, a little bitingly. "You don't hold the patent, and you don't hold the record."

Cassel looks positively sadistic now. His eyes are blazingly bright brown, and a mad smile curls his lips. I'm taken aback; I've never seen this side of Cassel, which enjoys putting people down and hurting them. But then again, everyone has that naturally; it's just that Cassel's is now peeping into the light, while mine has been in the spotlight for years. "But I'm the only transformation worker in the line, isn't that right, Ivan?"

I know instinctively that Cassel isn't like this, doesn't want to be like this, and that it's now my duty to bring him back. For once, I'm the relatively good guy. I'm nor exactly relishing the occasion it comes on. "Hey," I say, touching him on the arm. "Stop it, Cassel."

My touch makes him start. He looks at me uncertainly, as if unsure what I must think of him. I give him an admonishing look, then a reassuring one. _It's okay_, I tell him with my eyes. _Just snap out of it.__  
_

He turns to my father, who looks a little surprised at the sudden and disturbing change in Cassel's demeanor. "I don't want a part of this, Ivan. I just want out of this crap."

My father can sense the advantage now, and he drives it home with a sweetener. "I know that, Cassel. How about this: after this, I'll owe you a favour. Whatever I can give you, will be yours." That's a statement he would normally never make, granting such a favour, but I think he knows Cassel won't actually take him up on it.

I keep my hand on Cassel's shoulder and tighten my grip. "It'll be better this time, Cassel," I say, surprising myself. Why should I want us to do this? "Anytime you want, we can pull out now. Anyways, what would we do otherwise?"

That's it. That's the reason. This is why I'm okay with us doing this. Because we're grifters. The con is in our blood.

More importantly, it's in our heart.

Cassel looks at me, unsure, but I know it's done. He's in.

We both look at my father, who seems immensely relieved. He couldn't have anticipated such a tough negotiation to end so easily.

"Deal," Cassel says, and I nod. Wryly, I say, "I'd shake on it, but..." I survey the ten feet of distance between us and shake my head.

Once we're outside the warehouse, Cassel looks at me. "I don't think I was expecting this when we came here."

I laugh, fondly grabbing his arm and pulling him close as we walk leisurely in the dark street, back towards the busier roads. "But of course I was, Cassel, because of my innate powers of prophecy and bird-talk. I had you fooled all along," I say, dead serious. He doesn't fall for it, and I make a crestfallen expression, while he shakes his head and smiles.

We're lighthearted; I think it's because after months of running and hiding, we have a purpose.

We're going to find the Resurrection Diamond.

**A/N: Next chapter may be from Cassel's POV. And _f_****_or God's sake review, no one likes screaming to the fucking walls you sadists_**


	5. Chapter 5: Author's Note

**A/N: This is not a chapter, but I'm posting it anyway. I have exams coming up now, so I can't write or publish for a while. This note is basically telling you, my lone reader, that this story will be on hiatus for about a month. Afterwards, I have summer, so even though no one cares, I will post chapters more often then.**


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